


Five Miles From Eastbourne

by wordybirdy



Series: Trifle Bubbles - One-Shots & Multi-Chaptered [11]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drama, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Mystery, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-02 07:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15792162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: It is winter, late 1903.  Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are about to embark on their greatest adventure: a small farm, five miles from Eastbourne, on the southern slope of the downs.





	1. Chapter 1

The sitting-room at 221B Baker Street was quiet, almost eerily so, I thought, as I stood on its threshold and surveyed the space. Our old-familiar, our sanctuary; the room where we would end most every day, Sherlock Holmes and I, together, side-by-side, or in our chairs beside the fireplace. The fireplace was roaring now – it being the early winter of the year 1903.

What, then, within this room to throw my light upon? The old sideboard, with the used breakfast tray upon it. The table, laid in white, and strewn with newspapers and crumbs. The sofa, chairs, and writing desks, the latter bare; all bare, the papers, pens and books, all packed away. In the middle of the room: several large boxes, tied and bound.

Holmes was sitting by the fire, his knees drawn up. It looked most uncomfortable a perch. He was smoking his black clay; the plume was filling half the room. I waved a hand to clear the fug as I stepped in and now towards him.

“A three-pipe problem, it appears,” I said.

He grunted in reply.

“You've made some progress,” I persisted. “Look, I have brought you your tobacco – and just in time, it seems.”

A slender hand reached out and took the packet. “Thank you, John.” Then: “You were gone for a long while.” His tone was petulant.

I sat opposite my friend and lit my own, less toxic, pipe. “Yes, well,” I said, “the town was busy, and I was slow, and I was thinking to myself how I shall miss it.”

Holmes snorted softly. He placed the packet to one side. “You will miss the convenience, that's all,” said he.

“And the rest of it,” I said. I frowned. “I cannot believe you do not feel the same as I.”

He shrugged.

“It will catch up with you,” I smiled. “One day, sooner or later.”

“Oh, well, then I look forward to feeling even more disagreeable than usual,” said my friend.

“Come here,” I said. 

Holmes looked at me, brows drawn.

“I am here,” he said slowly. “So I suppose you mean, there, with you.” He sighed, and heaved himself up. Two steps, and he had landed, his left arm slung around my shoulder, his right still clutching at his pipe. “John, this is not even remotely comfortable. We are entirely too old for this.”

I held him fast, this six-foot vulture, claws and wings and beak and all. I stroked his hair. “Stop complaining. Twist yourself a little just this way... yes, that's much better.”

“Better, yet still undignified. I should have thought after seventeen years that you would have tired of dandling.”

I jiggled him. “Be quiet. You like it just the same as I.” (He smiled.) “We are both slightly ridiculous, but there is no-one here to see.”

In two days time, we would be gone from here, as ghosts, as dust, or ether. And left behind, familiar furniture and drapes, lampshades, carpets and old picture frames. What might become of them, well, only Mrs. Hudson knew. I wondered who should live here after us. New souls, new lives, with quirks and habits, standing there by the bay window, looking out – upon their view of the city, now; no longer ours to keep.

I felt impossibly nostalgic for something not yet completely gone.

Two days!

Holmes had been more than usually introspective this past week, and although he professed it made no difference now, as to whether he resided in the city or the country, and declaring he was quite finally exhausted of the former... and yet...

“I do want to do this, you know,” said my friend, a mind-reader as always. He squirmed, and placed a kiss to my temple. “I never thought I would tire of London,” he mused. “I feel quite choked by it now. It is time.”

“Yes.”

“That woman's name, I've forgotten it again. Oats? Oaf? Something with an O. John?”

“Mrs. Oaks,” I reminded him gently. “An old friend of Mrs. Hudson's. We are lucky that she agreed to housekeep for us, and that she already lives so close to our new home.”

“Thank goodness she won't be living in,” said he. “That would be nigh intolerable.”

I chuckled. “As I said, we are very lucky. Let us hope she is as good a cook as Mrs. Hudson swears she is.”

“She could not possibly be as bad as Mrs. Turner,” said my friend, as he heaved himself up and away. “I am quite certain that that woman would feed us the same dish as her dog might get.” He winked at me. “We can only be grateful that we do not lodge next door, eh, John.”

I watched him as he bustled, moving books and binding papers. Seventeen years! – as Holmes had just brought to the forefront of my mind. Seventeen years, this blissful state, evolving, never static, though it might drive me to my limits, sometimes, often.

“I love you,” I said, smiling, and quite apropos of nothing.

He glanced at me, then down. “Did I do something to your lap?”

That amused me, and I told him so, as I joined him at his busywork. The last box, half-full, just waiting for the cord to knot it closed. Tomorrow, they would be hefted high by fellows young and strong, hoisted up into the wagon and transported off, away.

“A great many years have been packed into these boxes,” I said, with reflection. “Our whole lives, more or less. So much, into so little.”

“John, don't be maudlin,” said he with a sniff. “You had best hope that one doesn't tip out on the mud, otherwise you'll be hooting.”

“I shall,” I agreed. “You had better not talk it up.”

Later, we would visit Scotland Yard and bid adieu to our good friends, Lestrade and Gregson. I could predict what would take place: the verbal jousting, and the shoulder slaps; _We will see you soon enough, no doubt._

Would we? Six months, or a year down the line? Sequestered away, would we dull to the travel, and the concept of contact? Or would we find ourselves stifled, and bored to distraction and aching for sport and the thrill of the chase?

Sherlock Holmes tells me, no. I am inclined to agree.

But still, it is strange.

Mrs. Hudson came to clear away the breakfast tray. Her eyes were bright and red-rimmed, and I stayed to touch her arm, to offer comfort, for she felt it more than we, I think.

“You will be happy, right enough,” said she, her chin raised high, determined. “It will be a lovely little home for you. You will be taken care of.”

And then dear Billy, when he came to stoke the fire and check the coals. He was mute, almost, and quite unlike his normal, cheery self. A grown man now, still loyal; fiercely so. He shook our hands, and bowed.

“Mr. Holmes, sir. Dr. Watson,” said he at last, “it has been the greatest pleasure, all these years, and I'd like to thank you now again for giving me my chance when I was just a little sprog. You'll never know how much that meant.”

Billy, fully grown, no longer dropping all his aitches, no longer sniffing on his sleeve, or cracking our best crockery. 

“John,” said Holmes, later. “All this sentiment is driving me stark-raving mad.”

Still much later, when the tumult had subsided, and we were back from town together, and dinner had been eaten, and we were sitting with our brandies, I cast my eyes across to Holmes. Still handsome – devilishly so – and lean, as much as ever. A fleck of grey now at his temple, a line or two across his brow, but still as sharp, almost as vigorous, as the first day that we had met. More human? Yes. Completely? No. For age could never wither his distaste for all society, nor temper his wild nature, still bohemian, forever pulling on the bit.

_The chalk cliffs against the coastline._

_The screaming gulls, the winter air._

_The steep path down, to pebbles and to shingle._

_Caves too, would you believe?_

“John,” said Holmes. “ _John_. You'll dream your life away.”

I started to, and smiled. “I was just thinking of the cliffs.”

“The cliffs?”

“Do you suppose we'll have adventures, still?”

“I imagine, of a different sort.”

Holmes never spoke a truer word.


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later, and the sky was grey and threatening to torrent. The chill air nipped us in our overcoats, as we stood there on the pavement looking up at the old building. So it was time. I looked at my keychain with a dull, stupid surprise: the absence of several, but the addition of more – the keys to our farm house and all its outbuildings. They felt strange to me still, and weighed heft in my palm. And somewhere I heard a clock strike on the hour, and then I knew that we must fly or miss our train. Holmes's arm slipped through my own.

“Let us be off,” said he.

We peered up through the gloom.

“It's goodbye,” I said softly.

Holmes nipped my earlobe with his free hand. “Come on, John.”

The journey down was uneventful. We arrived at the small station where a cart was waiting for us, and we travelled down the rutted lanes, a-bumping and a-rolling on the high seas of dried mud.

It was drizzling now; a mist was hanging low, the cold was biting. The cart stopped outside the house, and we stepped down. Holmes tipped the driver and we said farewell, then we watched as he drove off, the cart-wheels kicking up the dirt. Around the hedge he went, then slowly disappeared from view.

Holmes huffed a sigh. We exchanged glances.

“Well, here we are,” said he. “Better get out of this weather, or we'll freeze to death.”

Imagine, if you will: A white-painted cottage, four-up, four-down, surrounded by farm grounds with arable soil. Outbuildings for storage and acres for growth. It all seemed fairly daunting to my mind.

We walked up the path and turned the key in the lock.

A long narrow hall led away through to the back. To the left was the large sitting-room, and to the right the room where Holmes and I planned a grand library. The kitchen and laboratory were situated further down. All of this in chaos, still, with boxes and large crates holding the sum total of our lives. (I shuddered at the thought of sorting all of it away.) The hall was chill, but Mrs. Oaks had lit the fires, and so the sitting-room was cosy: greys and greens and orange fire-light, all warmth and gentle flicker. We stood there in the middle of the room and looked around us.

“It is almost like 221B,” I said, smiling.

“That was my plan all along,” Holmes replied. “So I am glad you approve.” He swept out an arm. “The main difference is that our writing desks are in the library now. And, of course, the lab has its own separate space.”

“Hallelujah,” I said dryly.

He moved across and touched my shoulder, tentative. “Are you happy, John?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes. We talked of this moment – didn't we – from so very early on. Now we are here, and we're together, so I am happy.”

My friend's eyes twinkled, and he drew me closer to him. He held my chin and kissed me. His lips were cold still from the winter, but his tongue was hot and amorous. We clung in our embrace for half a minute, all raking hands and juddered breath. We broke apart at last, both of us singularly affected.

“Have the beds even been made?” (So many questions to be answered.)

“I have less than no idea,” said Holmes. His fingers flickered at my trouser front. “Oh-ho, I can feel it. How about if I.... hmm?”

“Oh my god,” I said, twisting, “not here on the rug. It's brand new, heaven's sake.”

We burst out into mirth, a little hysterical for our own private reasons.

Holmes took my hand and led me out and up the stairs. Here on the first floor were two large bedrooms, a lumber-room, and a white-tiled bathroom, piped and modern. The beds were made; the fires lit.

“Which room shall we use for ourselves?” I enquired. “I suppose the one at the front.”

“I suppose,” said my friend. “It doesn't matter to me. I could sleep on the floor. It is all the same thing.”

“It is _not_ ,” I replied. “You are out of your mind.”

The rain was battering the windows, but the bedroom was inviting, and with us snug and safe within I could resist its charms no longer. I flung myself upon the counterpane, which smelt fresh and clean and welcoming. I sighed and inhaled deeply. Holmes sat beside me on the bed.

“Are you actually going to sleep?”

“Mmmmn.” I blinked. “Good gracious. You know, if you left me alone, I just might.”

I felt my eyelids drooping. I heard Holmes's tut and huff.

“I thought you wanted to play _pickle-me-tickle-me_ , but apparently _not_.” He jabbed at my ribs.

My chuckles made the bed vibrate. “I'll pickle you,” I said. “I'll pickle you right here and now. Don't assume that I'm insensible.” I reached out and grasped his thigh. “Wherever did you _hear_ that?”

“Oh, I don't know.” He stood. I heard him shuck away his jacket and his waistcoat, and his shoes upon the rug. The bed creaked as he joined me, and we lay there, closely intimate, while listening to the rain. After an interval, I felt his fingers tracing a light trail along my collarbone, with his breath upon my neck. Those fingers dallied at my shirt-front, and slipped inside. I gasped aloud. “Your hands are _cold_ \--” 

Cold hands, warm heart; no comfort when they're on your flesh and freezing you.

(Cold hands warm up, eventually.)

Afterwards, we lay, a mess of arms and legs and tats of crumpled clothes.

“John,” said he, “I have no words.”

“For once.” 

I struck a match and lit two cigarettes, and we smoked a little while. And the world slowed down its tilt-a-whirl, and the rain asked for permission to make itself heard once again.

\------------------------------------

The afternoon was spent unpacking and arranging our possessions. There was more space than the either of us knew quite what to do with, and that pleased us both immensely. We had arranged that Mrs. Oaks pay us a visit before five, so that we might become acquainted. As the time of the meeting drew near we took breath, and retired to the front to look out on the path.

“She mustn't keep her key, John,” said my friend. “Otherwise, she'll just be in and out and buzzing in our ears all day.”

“All right.”

“But she has to be here early in the morning, and the evening, to cook our meals and do the cleaning. And John, she has to--”

“You can tell her this yourself, Holmes,” I said, pointing. “Here she comes.”

We heard a rap at the front door, and I sprang up. I was somewhat disconcerted to observe a large and bulbous nose pressed hard against the pane of glass. Two bright beads for eyes peered through.

“My god,” said Holmes, “what's this?”

I pulled the door wide open, but the vision on the doorstep bid us hesitate.

“Good afternoon, my gentlemen,” the vision said. It grimaced in a close approximation of a smile. “My name is Mrs. Oaks.”


	3. Chapter 3

Mrs. Oaks stood there before us. Her large and bulbous nose appeared the more-so in the shadows cast by lamplight. She was wearing a long woollen shawl that wrapped around her shoulders and hung down to her large booted feet. Her skirts were much the worse for wear, and her bonnet dangled ribbons that had seen far better days. Her expression, though, now that the shock of meeting her had faded, was a kindly one.

“Good afternoon,” said Mrs. Oaks, again.

“It is so very good to meet you,” I said, bowing. “I am John Watson, and this gentleman is Sherlock Holmes, of course.”

“Charmed,” offered Holmes, who looked anything but.

“Come in out of the rain,” I invited. “Did you not bring a coat?”

“No,” said Mrs. Oaks. She stamped her boots upon the mat. “There'll be snow tomorrow.” She sounded mournful. “That rain's turnin' to hail.”

“Oh dear, I do hope not.” I looked quickly at Holmes.

“Mrs. Oaks,” my friend said briskly, striding back through to the sitting-room, and beckoning we follow him. “Now listen closely, for I have a list of tasks you must remember and must follow to the letter.”

“Oh,” said she, “well, that's me done for.” And she cackled like a raven. “No, no, my sirs, I'm all in jest. Do go on, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes outlined all our wants and needs, and when and how to do them. The housekeeper listened carefully, and nodded at fair intervals.

“You'll be wanting my key then,” the old woman said, and she plucked at her pocket and offered it up. “As long as you'll be around when I want in, 'cause I don't rate a broken neck for climbin' up your drainpipe. Well, your larder's fully stocked, at any rate. You'd fancy dinner now, I reckon.”

“That would be lovely,” I agreed. “Thank you so much.”

“Nips and tatties and a lovely meat pie,” crooned the crone, “that'll settle you right.”

We watched as she hobbled away down the hall, still singing her lullaby menu.

“John,” said Holmes, his eyebrows launching somewhere into orbit, “what on earth are _nips and tatties_? And why didn't Mrs. Hudson care to warn us that her friend was mad?”

I rubbed at my nose. “You must give the poor woman a chance,” I replied. “It could be she is nervous. As for 'nips and tatties', she must mean 'turnips and potatoes'.”

There was a loud clang from the kitchen, as that of a saucepan descending to tile. A muffled screech, a stifled oath, a pause, the sound of running water.

“Perhaps she's now drowning herself,” said my friend. He sat down by the fire and picked up a book. I drew the curtains, and joined him, although not set for reading. I fell into thought, of the day we had spent, and the days yet to come. Such a series of firsts – our first meal, our first night, then the first dawning of day. I wondered if there might be snow. I hoped that I might venture out tomorrow, and explore the cliffs and beach, or even wander into Fulworth, the nearest village to our farm. I said as much to Holmes. “Well, I might join you,” he replied, “for we have unpacked all the boxes, and there is not much left to do except to tidy.”

After an interval, the meal was on the table and we set to with alacrity, for we had eaten very little since the morning. The pie was good, homemade and hearty, and with some left for the next day's lunch, our housekeeper informed us.

“I must be off,” said she, after the dishes had been washed. “My husband's home. It's going to snow. I don't want to be caught in it. You'll see me first thing in the morning.” And away she hopped, half-tripping on her shawl, the front door banging closed behind her.

“I really don't think that it's going to snow,” I said, by the window, looking out at the sky from the grey curtain-fold. “But _brrr!_ it's very cold.” I returned to the fire and a glass of fine brandy, and smoked a cigar while my friend sat in thought. “Do you miss Baker Street?”

Holmes raised his chin and smiled most curiously. “It's hard to say,” said he. “I think I'm still acclimatising. Ask me again this time next week.”

In bed, not so long afterwards – for we were both tired from the day – we held each other as the dying fire sputtered into ash. The night outside, so quiet, and our cottage, just the two of us... and I fell to sleep, and dream, as the first snowflakes came to fall.

\-----------------------------------------

By eight o'clock of the next morning, the whole house was awake and moving. Mrs. Oaks was in the kitchen frying up the eggs and bacon. Holmes and I were dressed up warmly, gazing out at the white blanket that was covering the green.

“What do you say now, eh, my boy?” chuckled Holmes. He rubbed his hands and closed the door. “Although it's not so very deep. It will have melted by the afternoon.”

We stopped all of a sudden then, and listened to the sound of singing coming from the far end of the house. The most curious timbre; both cracked and forlorn, with a top-note of glee.

“What a hideous noise,” said my friend. “Stop her, John.”

“There is no law against singing sea-shanties at eight in the morning, that I am aware of,” I said. “Let Mrs. Oaks have her fun.”

After breakfast, I pulled on my boots and buttoned up my overcoat. There were acres to explore, and roads to tramp, places to be. Holmes reneged, stating his preference to stay home in his laboratory. So off I strode, the morning air sparking a fire in my chest. 

We had neighbours – separated by tall hedges – but not so very near our cottage that they might prove to be a nuisance. Ten minutes down the road was Mrs. Oaks's home, where I supposed she was this very minute, easing off her boots and making with her day. I passed a fellow on the path close by the cliffs; we raised our hats and exchanged greetings, and complained about the weather. “You are new here?” said the chap. “Oh yes, just moved in yesterday,” said I. “I say, how great, I hope you're settled in for Christmas.” And we were off again, upon our separate ways. How very different from the city, where it is each man for himself! By the time I reached the steep path to the beach I'd started whistling, and as I skidded to the sea I felt the happiest man alive bar not a one.

_How magnificent!_ The seagulls spinning circles, landing soft upon the shingle. The cresting waves striking the shore, the smell, the sound, the bracing atmosphere. I wished that Holmes might have been with me to enjoy this special moment. I dug my hands into my pockets, burrowed down into my scarf, and watched the grey sea dance its waltz and listened to it sing its song.

I was quite frozen by the time that I returned to up on high. I thought I might trot into Fulworth, to pay a visit to the market for a local treat or two. The walk was bracing, and by the time that I had reached the little village, a pale white sun was poking through the clouds; the faintest stripe of warmth landing across my upturned face.

There was a little bakery on the main road passing through. I purchased pastries, a jam sponge cake, and a bag of chocolate bits. The baker's wife was pleasant, and we shared a friendly chat.

“Oh, Mrs. Oaks!” said she. “Oh yes, I know the lady well. She comes here often, to buy her breads and cakes, and always has a funny thing to say. I am so glad that she has found a new position at your house.”

This talk set me to thinking that I might visit Mrs. Oaks on my return, for I was curious, and wished to see the home that held this most eccentric lady.

Rose Lane was quaint and picturesque. Tiny, stone-built cottages, with chimneys puffing whorls of smoke, and scents of fresh bread baking from the open kitchen windows. Number-three's gate was wide open. I stepped inside and looked around. A pretty place to live, albeit needing some attention: the grass was overgrown; the wood sills crumbling and flaking.

I tensed then, straightened up. From a window, just ajar upon the upper floor, there came a dreadful sound. The sound of weeping, harsh and bitter. A man was weeping there, as if his very heart was in the act of breaking.


	4. Chapter 4

“Well, what do you expect me to do?” Holmes was standing by the shelves in his laboratory, arms laden with glass bottles and pipettes. “I mean to say, John, it is none of our business, is it, really?”

I hovered in the doorway, still unsettled and distressed. “Not specifically, but, oh, Holmes, if you had heard the man... it was quite dreadful. Should I have a word with Mrs. Oaks later this evening?”

“No, for heaven's sake. And please don't look at me like that. I've no intention of getting involved.”

I stamped through to the kitchen, now in an ill temper. I deposited the baked goods on the table, and cut myself a generous piece of last night's pie. This I ate without a napkin or a plate, dropping crumbs through to the sitting-room, where the fire was in its throes of dying out. I jabbed it crossly with the poker, tossed a few coals upon the top, and watched it groan back into life. I did not like to think of anyone in pain, emotional or otherwise. In some small way I wanted to assist, and now felt thwarted in the doing so. Distracted thus, I finished the meat pie. I wanted tea. Back to the kitchen, where I made a noise with every cupboard door.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and jumped. “John, you are a cross little bear. You must stop it.”

“I'm making tea,” I said, “for the first time in I don't know how many years.”

“This really doesn't bode well,” said my friend. He placed a kiss to my left cheek. “I love your good heart, do you know that? It is always in your nature to protect. You have many fine qualities, but that is one of your best.”

I grunted, somewhat mollified. “I am sorry about the crumbs,” I said.

“You are the Hansel to my Gretel,” Holmes replied, with a soft pat to my behind. He leaned against the door and watched me as I fussed about. “We've done very well, I think. There's just the library to sort through. How do we have so many books? And why _three_ sets of encyclopaedias? John, this afternoon I think that I might start work on the apiary.”

“Oh!” I was delighted. “Oh, Holmes, that will be marvellous. Are you sure that you can manage? Do you have everything you need?”

“I am not a total loss,” said he. “Yes, I have the tools, and yes, I have some wood, and mesh. It can't be all that complicated, surely.”

“I believe you,” I said, stirring the leaves in the pot and popping over the cosy. “ _There_. I have made a pot of tea. I feel quite accomplished.”

“I am glad that one of us is in some way domesticated,” Holmes replied. “I imagine you'd like to cut into that sponge cake now. You've had your eye on it the entire time we've been talking.”

The tea and cake hit the spot. By the early afternoon I was feeling much cheerier, and helped Holmes set up his toolwork in the outbuilding to the rear. I watched him as he measured out the slats of wood, methodical, precise.

“How many hives?” I asked him.

“I think, two, to start with.”

“I'm looking forward to next summer, then,” I said. “Honey scones and honey sandwiches.”

He smiled up at me and winked. “I love your optimism, John.”

I left him to his work and returned inside the house, rubbing my hands against the chill. The library and its maelstrom kept me busy for a while. Within two hours it was bearing some resemblance to its name, the books shelved neatly in good order, and our writing desks prepared. Satisfied, I checked my pocket-watch: four-thirty. It was nearly time for Mrs. Oaks to pay us her visit for the evening. Of course, that set me back to thinking of the morning – which I had successfully forgotten to this point. I wished I might forget it more. I lit the lamps, and stepped outside to the back yard, the air a nip, the sky a woven web of murk. I poked my head around the door of the outbuilding. 

“Holmes?”

He was standing at the work-bench, hunched and frowning. In the middle, on the ground, was a small structure, four legs high and five slats 'round. 

“For a fellow who knew nothing of carpentry,” I said, “it seems you have a natural talent.”

“Don't praise me yet,” said he, still frowning, “it is not as easy as it looks.” He sighed, and turned around to meet me. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” I said. I nestled in his arms, inhaled the smell of him, the wood chips and the warmth around his collar, with my nose against his neck. I kissed his throat; I felt the throb, the pulse, the strength behind the stubbled skin. I breathed and sighed, and nudged him back against the bench with less resistance than expected – for after all, I had intruded on his industry.

He held me at the hip, he pulled me all the closer to him. 

“John, you've just reminded me of how dratted cold it is,” he said, now shivering inside his shirt.

“You are a block of ice,” I remonstrated. I stroked his cheek. “Leave all this now, and come inside.”

Still entwined, we made our way back to the house.

“I love the freedom that we have,” I said, as if the thought had only just occurred. “I can kiss you here, or there, or grab you round-a-bouts--” (and here Holmes began to laugh) “--and there is no-one to intrude, or see, or otherwise. It's heaven.”

“I rather like the idea of being grabbed by the round-a-bouts. But as for intrusion, unfortunately, don't we have our dear housekeeper due to launch herself upon us? It must be almost five o'clock by now.”

It was, indeed, almost that time.

And then the clock struck on the hour.

And later still, it was half-past.

“She's late,” said Holmes. “This will not do. I suppose something must have happened.”

“I do hate to say I-told-you-so,” I said, “but something evidently has.”

“Oh, John, really, are you _still_ gibbering on about this morning?”

“Excuse me, please, if you thought it was gibber,” I said, with a fleck of annoyance. “I vote we wait until six, and then go and see what is wrong.”

My friend groaned in impatience. “We didn't make a back-up plan,” said he. “We're going to starve, or freeze to death.”

“If the worst comes to the worst,” I said, “we can cook our own meal, and we can light our own fires. A temporary situation,” I added then, as I saw Holmes's flinch in horror. 

Mrs. Oaks was still delayed by six o'clock. With resignation, Holmes allowed himself to be eased into his overcoat, and together we set off for the short walk down to Rose Lane. The night was still, and we were quiet too, as we hovered by the gate on our arrival. A light was burning in a ground floor room; the upper rooms were black. I walked alone to the front step and, with a deep breath, rapped the brass knocker. I waited a good moment, but to no answer from within. I turned around to look at Holmes. I rapped again.

And then – this time, at last – a sign of life. The light went out. The house was dark completely now, and answer came there none.

“What should we do?” I asked my friend, as I rejoined him at the gate.

“Cook our own meal and light our own fires, I suppose,” Holmes replied. “If someone is home, yet they do not answer the door, we cannot break our way in to demand why and what. Come on, John, let's go home.”

I felt down to the marrow that somewhere here there lay a greater unsolved mystery, but I had to acquiesce. We tramped back home and lit the fires, and cobbled up a meal together that if not quite a gourmet dish was at the least, quite fairly edible.

“Tomorrow, John, I promise you,” said Holmes, “things will be clearer.”

I truly hoped so, for perplexity was not my favourite state.


	5. Chapter 5

That point of slow awakening from slumber; the sound of morning as it encroaches and encircles. I was aware of singing birds outside the window, and of warmth and of my friend pressed close against me, with his cold nose inside my ear.

“Good morning, John.”

“Your nose is cold,” I said.

“My hands are even colder. Feel.”

I retracted in shock. “Good god, stop that nonsense! See how _you_ like it. There!”

We wrestled for a moment, all pressing hands and grunts and oaths. I had him by the waist, his nightshirt rucked around his midriff, and I dealt him a sound kiss upon the mouth. “You are a menace, Holmes.”

“I know.”

“What is the time?”

“It's just gone seven.”

“We'd best be up. It won't be long before Mrs. Hud--”

“Ha ha!” Holmes crowed into my face. “I knew you'd be the first to crack.”

I nudged him in the ribs. “Shut up. It's early. I'm still asleep.” 

Neither of us mentioned what was foremost in our minds. We washed and dressed and made our way downstairs. We opened curtains, peeped outside – fresh snow! – and found each other in the kitchen. Holmes was staring at the coffee pot as if it were an eight-pronged beast. 

“I would like a cup of coffee,” he confided, “but I have not the slightest clue as how to do it.”

(I loved this man with all my heart.)

“Then I will show you,” I replied.

We drank our coffee at the table in the sitting-room, the fire lit, and the day outside just brightening, as snowflakes fell and settled, melted, settled once again. It was a day to spend in bed, to laze, make love, and talk. A plan that would be thwarted if our housekeeper remained aloof. For then, we'd have to pay a second visit and do – something. (I knew not what.)

A knock at the door. 

“Well, now there you are, John,” said my friend. He leaned back in his chair. “I suppose it is she. The snow muffled her boots. Go on, then! Before she turns 'round and escapes.”

I leapt for the hall, unlocked and drew open, to find –

“It's snowing like a baggage,” said Mrs. Oaks, her face in roil. 

“Mrs. Oaks!” I was so pleased I hardly knew what I should say.

“Let me in,” said Mrs. Oaks. “Or I'll faint dead upon your doorstep.”

I hustled the poor lady in, chivvied her through to the kitchen and sat her down on a chair. She was wearing the same costume as on all previous days, and once again no coat. She shivered violently, and rubbed her mittened hands. “It's bawbag cold,” said she, her mouth in downturned misery.

“Are you all right?” I asked, concerned. “As we did not see you yesterday evening?”

There came the slightest shadow across the woman's face. She shook her head as if to toss a thought away from her. “No, you did not,” she said. “I mean to say, that I am sorry for the trouble.”

“Can we be of any help?” I was persistent. Holmes was here now and was leaning by the lintel, watching, arms folded to his chest. The housekeeper squinted up at him.

“No,” said Mrs. Oaks. She scrubbed at her eyes, raw and red from the chill. “You are both very kind. It won't happen again.” She got to her feet. It seemed she was debating if she might chivvy us away. “Ham and eggs,” said she with meaning. Then, removing an ill-fitting mitten she wiped her nose upon the wool. “Or eggs and ham. You has a choice. HAH!”

We found ourselves back in the hall. Holmes took my elbow and steered me safely to the sitting-room.

“No more interfering, John,” said he.

“But--”

He tapped my nose. _Interfering._

“It will happen again, though,” he said thoughtfully.

“What? How do you know?”

“There can be no other possible outcome. Have you been paying the slightest attention?”

“I believed that I had,” I replied with a frown. “Holmes, you have worried me now.”

He shrugged. “I am interested to see how this plays out,” he said mysteriously. “But John, let's have our breakfast, and turn our attention to other things.”

The ham and eggs and pickles were very welcome. We enjoyed a second pot of coffee while we listened to the tidywork. The floors were swept, the fires were lit, the kitchen tables were scrubbed down. Little enough to do, indeed, for being here two days.

The snow was thick outside the window. As Mrs. Oaks waved _Cheerio_ , and tramped her way towards the gate, we watched her tracking footprints deep and heavy in the pile. We were alone again, at last, with no intention of poking noses out for the fear of being frozen off.

“We should have moved in the summer,” Holmes said, gazing out at the view. “Whatever were we thinking?”

“Whether we moved then or now,” I said with a smile, “it would not make any difference to our standing here and grumbling at the weather. At least we're not cut off entirely from the world. We have a telephone.”

“Ye-es,” said Holmes. He sounded quite underwhelmed. “What we _don't_ have are good snowboots.”

We found ourselves in bed again. Or rather, on the top of it, lounging, smoking cigarettes, and talking. A novelty for us – the sprawling on the bed in daylight – for we rarely were so bold back in the hold of Baker Street. We spoke little of our old life back in London, for our focus was quite strongly on the future and our exciting plans. Holmes wished to study philosophy, and even agriculture, and of course, work with his bees at some near future opportunity. (“They are becoming less theoretical by the day,” said he, a smile upon his face.) As for me, I yearned to catch up with my reading – all those books! – and learn to garden, which was something I had done scant little of, but which intrigued me now, with all the land we had outside to front and back.

And, of course, to have each other when we liked and how we liked, and quite as loudly as we wanted.

I informed Holmes of this fact.

“We'll be having a jumble-giblets every day?” my friend enquired.

“A... jumble-giblets?” 

“A good game in the cock-loft, do pardon my language.”

“Holmes, you are revolting.”

“The more-so the older I get, it appears!”

A handful of each other, and my teeth upon his neck. His hips to mine, through cloth, it made no matter, as we wrestled on the bed. Endearments whispered in the other's ear; teasing a moan, a sense of urgency, and hands, caressing, pulling, hot and feverish, the taste of his saliva, and the scent of his damp skin. _I want you so badly... Yes, now... Where's the..? Move a little... That's right... Oh, yes, now... Oh!... Oh!... Oh....!_

“You are very loud,” I told him afterwards.

“Well, so are you. Right in my ear.”

Post-coital, he is beautiful. More beautiful than any man has any right to be. His cheeks high-coloured, hair a muss, a curving smile; the sated wanton on the bed, eyes fixed upon me to my pleasure. I do so love him.

But now – the day – ahead of us. And groaning, we roll out and off and up, clean up the havoc, and proceed towards the stairs.


	6. Chapter 6

I found that I enjoyed preparing lunch for just the two of us. (Life was a sequence of surprises, small and notable.) Searching through the pantry, I found the remnants of the meat pie, and the fresh-baked loaf from breakfast. Some thick-sliced cheese, a few soft pickles, and the tray was piled high. I presented this to Holmes as a proud parent might their newborn son.

“You are a wonder, John,” said he.

“You're eating well at last. I think retirement suits you,” I replied.

The sky was clearing, finally, the white clouds peeking out in slithers, querulous. It was so quiet, on the path, and in the lane; we could hear nothing but the gentle roll of wind, the tall trees echoing its tarry. I felt the need to be outside all of a sudden: to stroll down to the cliffs again, to walk with Holmes, that he might share all of this joy with me. I said as much. He snorted, more's the pity.

“I thought you feared the frostbite. And besides, we have no snowboots, John, how many times?”

“We'll manage,” I said, stubborn to the last. I set my plate aside. I stood and beckoned to him. “Come on now, love, you need the exercise.”

“I am quite certain I do not,” said he, his eyebrows arched, but standing just the same.

In coats and gloves and scarves we shut the front door fast behind us and walked out into the lane. The air was still and very cold. _Invigorating._ “No,” said Holmes.

Arm in arm, we headed for the cliffs, our steps yet hampered by the snow which crept into our boots, our winter socks, and worse.

“Remind me not to listen to a word you say again,” said Holmes.

Yet even he was silent when we reached the edge, the sea view there ahead of us – in shades of grey, but all the same, quite stunning – the wind here whipping at our collars and fair whistling in our ears.

“There is a fellow by the shore,” I said. “He has a little dog, how grand.” I tugged at Holmes's sleeve. “Let's go and say good day to him.”

“Whatever for?” my friend enquired, allowing me to drag him nonetheless. We tilted down the single path, so steep and narrow, to the beach. The man was throwing driftwood for his pet to chase. We watched them for a minute. I felt all of a sudden that I should rather like a dog. I was about to voice this thought to Holmes, when the fellow turned and waved to us.

“Good gracious,” I exclaimed, “it's the young chap whom I met yesterday. He was a friendly sort.”

We trod the shingle to come level, and we introduced ourselves. The fellow's name was Jacob Jones; he lived a little way up yonder, closer to Fulworth. “But I like this stretch of beach,” said he. “And the doggo likes it too. We come here often. Here, I say, it's very nice to meet the two of you. Where do you live, exactly?”

I explained our circumstances, and Jacob Jones nodded and smiled. “Your farmstead had been empty for a while,” said he. “It's fortunate you're there now, 'fore the winter sets in proper, like. Who does your housekeep? Are you looking? My missus is searching for a post.”

“We are quite settled in that way,” I said. “We have a lady by the name of Martha Oaks, who lives nearby and helps us out.”

The fellow started, all wide eyes and puzzled face. “Oh dear,” said he. “Then I am sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” I enquired. I glanced swiftly to my friend, but he was mute, his face inscrutable. “Mrs. Oaks is a good lady, and a better cook. She made us a fine breakfast this morning.”

Jones's eyes popped even wider. “But that's impossible,” he said.

“And why is that?”

“Good heavens, man. You mean to say that you don't know? The news is all around the village now. Mrs. Oaks died of pneumonia just yesterday!”

\-------------------------------------------------

“Holmes!” I said. “Holmes!”

My friend had pulled me, dazed, from our new friend and up the path away to grass and field and quiet. I wrenched myself free of his grip. “Will you _explain?_ ”

“What should I explain? Can you not apply my methods, John?”

“If you _must_ ask a stupid question...”

Holmes sighed and linked my arm once more. He drew me back towards our cottage, and we were quiet as we huffed through the white ruffle at our feet, and quieter still as we stepped in and shook our coats and stamped our boots.

“Come through, let's make a pot of tea,” he said.

“Mrs. Oaks is dead,” I told him dully, as if he did not already know.

“Yes, John, she is, I'm much afraid.”

I shook my head. “But we saw her just this morning! She was alive! I just don't understand.”

I was distracted by the sight of Holmes with teapot and a caddy. This spectacle was new to me. I was much fascinated.

This held until we were seated in the sitting-room, and busy with the teacups and the sugar cubes.

Holmes sat back and arched his fingers to his lips. “What do you know?” he said.

I began to laugh hysterically. “I don't know anything.”

“Just this, then, John,” said he. “And then no more, until we see our dear deceased later today. Take notes! Well, then. Her boots, her bonnet, and her mittens. The simply dreadful singing, and her nose, and both her eyes. Good gracious, that's a list to see you through to some idea.”

My brain was throbbing. “The lady looks no different now, from when we first arrived. And nothing has been stolen. In fact!” I said, exclaiming, “In fact, she has been bringing food, and going quite out of her way to make us comfortable! That is, apart from last night, but...”

“Let's wait,” said Holmes, ignoring all my bleating and my protest. “At five o'clock, we shall reveal the truth. If you can be patient, John?”

All of these years I have learned patience, but it has cost me half my sanity. 

We waited.

So came five o'clock.

And three minutes past, there came the knock we were expecting. And there was Mrs. Oaks upon our doorstep, blinking up at us. 

“Come in,” said Holmes. “Sit down for just one moment, Mrs. Oaks.”

Perhaps she knew. I think she did. She exhaled a shaken breath, and shuffled through and to a chair. We sat on either side, Holmes calm and passive to my puzzled state.

“I'm just three minutes late,” said Mrs. Oaks with her best bluff.

“It's quite all right,” my friend said gently. Then: “My condolences for the loss of your dear wife. You've been so very brave to carry on this way.”

I stared at Holmes, uncomprehending. The lady seated 'twixt us let out a gasp, which sallied to a moan. When she spoke at last after a tortured interval, her voice was deeper, rougher, by a little, not so notable, then fairly unmistakable.

“My Martha,” mourned poor Mr. Oaks. “I did the best I could. I've lost her now.”

And with his face thrown to his hands, he wept, as he had done the day that I first visited Rose Lane.

I ran for the brandy. Holmes offered comfort. And soon, by and by, Mr. Oaks became calm.

“I suppose you want our story, then,” said he. “Well, here I go. I hold no shame to it. My wife was healthy, Mr. Holmes, sir, when she first heard from her old friend – your landlady – Mrs. Hudson. And she was happy, aye, so happy to have that letter, for we were down to our last penny, just about. Housekeeping jobs are few and far between 'round here, and for myself, I've had no better luck with my own trade in shoe-making. I earn a little, scarce enough. Things were looking up now, when Martha found her post with you. Then she fell ill, and took to bed. 

'What shall I do, Jim?' she said to me. 'I'll lose this job, and there won't be another one.'

“So we set to thinking, and I decided that I'd help the best I could. I didn't reckon that you'd like a man about the place for cooking or for cleaning, so I dressed up in Martha's clothes, and found a bonnet that hid my face quite well enough, and well, my voice was never so deep that it might be a struggle to raise it higher.

'Just for a little while,' I said to my old Martha. 'Until you're feeling well again, and then we'll cross that bridge.' 

“We might have made some story up, I don't know what, some fabrication. But it was too late, and Martha sickened worse, and then... and then, you know what happened, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, sir.”

Mr. Oaks looked up. “I need the money desperate,” said he. “That's why I'm still dressed up and talking like a fool. I guessed I'd carry on until I found a job elsewhere to suit my trade or otherwise. I didn't mean no harm, sirs. I really meant no harm at all. And I don't know how you found me out, but I hope you aren't so angry.”

Sherlock Holmes raised a hand, shook his head, and remarked: “I deduce that in your youth you were a ship's cook, out at sea? Yes, I thought as much. You have a marked talent. And the singing, um, yes...”

“I like my shanties,” said Mr. Oaks, a half-smile twisting up his face. “Aye, them were good years on the ship. I learned to cook and do some housekeep. It's served me well in later years.”

“Mr. Oaks,” said Holmes, “if you would like – and I am sure Dr. Watson will agree with me – it might serve you well for longer here. If you are amenable, that is. Dresses and bonnets not required.”

The fellow started in his seat and looked from Holmes to me and back again.

“What are you saying, sir?” asked he. “You are wanting to retain me, after all of my deceit?”

Holmes smiled. “Well, yes, I think so. If you would like to, should I say. The choice is yours.”

“I think,” said Mr. Oaks, his voice in wonder, “yes, I think that I should like that very much. You've been most kind to me. You've saved my bacon, so you have. So yes, I do accept, and thank you kindly, thank you sirs!”

\-------------------------------------------------------

A very short while later, as saucepans rattled in the kitchen and the aroma of baked chicken wafted through to where we sat, I turned to Holmes.

“So, now explain the rest of it,” I said. “Or face my wrath.”

“Ah, John,” said he. “It was a simple matter. The sea-shanties we now know about. Not so hard to deduce. And there are some things one can't hide: size 10 boots for greater instance, and ladies' mittens far too small for a man's hands. You thought his eyes were red-raw from the snow this morning, but I surmised he had been weeping 'fore he came to us. And then, of course the _nose_. Our friend here has a great proboscis. A telephone call to Mrs. Hudson revealed the fact that Martha Oaks's nose was neat and small, unlike her husband's, I was informed. Well, is there anything I've missed?”

“I do not think so,” I replied. “Holmes, you are a better and a kinder man each day, I hope you know that.”

He flushed in pleasure, might have answered, but for the sound of singing then from the direction of the kitchen. It was a shanty, of the sea sort. It was half-cracked and derailed, with a top-note of the preposterous.

“What a hideous noise,” said my friend. “Stop him, John.”

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who has read, commented, and/or thrown kudos at this story. It's my first “retirement” fic, so I was a little apprehensive, but perhaps without cause. You've all been so lovely. In which direction should I head next? That's where YOU come in. Which era of Holmes & Watson do you enjoy the most, and want to read more of? 
> 
> How about a small series of retirement stories, within this small universe that I've already set?
> 
> Or perhaps you'd prefer a younger H&W, still living at 221B, running around solving cases?
> 
> Or even, neither of those things. Instead, perhaps you'd enjoy more Gen-rated parody, and “Silly-Holmes” fluff?
> 
> The ball is in your Persian slipper. The jack-knife is on YOUR mantel. I'd really appreciate your comments! <3


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